Dabbles in Drabbles
by AwesomeMcCoolname
Summary: Just some pointless oneshots for one of my all-time favorite shows. Multi-genre, no slash, some pre-series. Please Read & Review!
1. Jump

**Jump.**

"Never do that again," Peter snapped at Neal. They were both gasping for breath as they waited for their backup to pick them up; Neal sank to the ground, shaking slightly, and bowed his head as he tried to slow his breathing. Peter put his hands on his knees and glowered at the con man he had for a partner. "What the hell were you thinking, Caffrey?" he demanded.

Neal's shoulders hunched at his partner's tone. "I was thinking that I should probably get out of there fast," he said. "What with guns being drawn 'n' all that."

"And the roof was your best bet?" Peter was aghast. "You could have gotten killed!"

"Peter, I—"

"I don't want to have to peel you off the sidewalk, Neal!"

"Peter—"

"Last thing I need is a Neal Caffrey pancake—"

"_Peter!"_

Peter held up his hands defensively, and Neal looked up at Peter in exasperation. "I appreciate your concern, but you can stop shouting." Caffrey looked back at his hands; his palms had almost no skin left on them and were stinging agonizingly. His annoyance at the FBI agent had dulled the pain for a while, but now he realized how badly they hurt. He sighed and glanced at Agent Burke. "I suppose this isn't a good time to tell you that that's nowhere near the farthest I've jumped."

Peter smacked Neal upside the head. "Damn right it isn't."


	2. Truth

**Truth.**

Neal held his hat in both hands as he stood in the Burkes' doorway. He was soaking wet and his hair, usually impeccably neat in its slick-tousled way, was plastered to his skull with rain. Upon opening the door, El found him staring down at her with his blue eyes wide and pained, a more earnest version of his trademark lost-puppy gaze. His hat wasn't on his head but becoming quite crumpled in his long, elegant fingers, and that concerned Elizabeth as she ushered him in.

"Honey? Who is it?" Peter called from upstairs, sticking his head out of the bedroom.

El cast a glance over her shoulder. "It's Neal," she called. Turning back in search for the ex-con, she found him being mauled by a very happy Satch in the living room. "Neal, what's wrong?"

"My father," he said, surfacing.

When her mouth fell open, he turned away from her and sat down heavily on the couch. She followed him but remained standing. "I didn't even know you _had_ a father," she murmured as Peter came into the room. Neal and Elizabeth turned to look at him; one curious and one desperate. The agent gave both of them concerned looks and added his two cents' worth, saying, "I thought he died when you were a kid."

Neal's gaze fell to the Satch as he continued to scratch the lab's ears. "I guess you _don't _know all about my life," he said with a soft chuckle aimed at Peter. "I only wish he had died. No, the truth is much worse than that."


	3. Zipper

**Zipper.**

"Aw, Peter, c'mon!"

Neal was trailing after the FBI agent like a loyal, loved, but at times—especially times like this—annoying dog. Peter rolled his eyes and tried to ignore Caffrey's pleas for attention as he opened the door to his office and sat down.

Instead of taking his usual position in the seat across from Peter, with his feet thrown up on the desk, Neal remained standing but slightly stooped over his handler. Peter couldn't ignore Caffrey's minty breath blowing down the back of his neck for long.

"For the last time, no means _no,_ Neal," Peter sighed. "Why don't you get Jones to go with you?"

"Jones is busy," Neal said shortly. "And before you ask, so are Agents Cruz, Lancing, and even—_even_—Hughes."

Peter had to do a double take at that last name. "You asked _Hughes_ to go with you to this Halloween ball?"

Neal rolled his blue eyes and sighed, adopting the air of an exasperated parent trying to be patient with a slow-on-the-uptake child. "It's not a ball, Peter. It's a charity event to take some homeless children trick-or-treating. June's going to be there, and El said you didn't have anything to do, so… Hey, Peter, wait up!"

Peter had gotten up and made a dash for the door, knowing his resolve was wavering. Neal grabbed Peter's hand and met the agent's eyes. His own were wide and pleading, and when he spoke next his voice was soft and laden with emotion. "Hey, man. Do it for the kids."

Burke's resolve, previously wavering, crumbled. He sighed. "Fine," he grumbled. "But no costumes, alright?"

* * *

Four hours later, Peter had a smile on his face and a bag full of candy. He stepped into his dark house and began climbing the stairs to his room. Elizabeth laughed at him and he shared her amusement; even so, he couldn't wait to change out of this ridiculous costume.

"Tigger never looked so handsome," El said as she came over to ruffle his ears and kiss his orange-painted cheek. He grinned at her.

"Any chance you could help a fella out of this thing?" he asked, his arms sliding around her waist. Their lips connected as she reached over his shoulder to the back of his neck.

"Uh…"

"Something wrong?" Peter breathed.

"I think the zipper's stuck."


	4. Rose

_**A/N: **Thanks for the reviews, guys. Quick question: Is it Satchmo or Satchamo? Just wondering._

**Rose.**

_Doo-doop!_

El glanced at her Blackberry from where she was standing ordering caterers and florists and other such workers around. The little black device was blinking innocently at her, but she knew that the message it carried was going to annoy her. She tried to ignore it, but it was burning a hole in its holster on her hip. Finally she excused herself and tried to run outside while looking discrete.

The message was from Peter.

"He might as well have said he was going to Florida on honeymoon with that Neal Caffrey!" she moaned, rubbing her forehead. Peter wasn't even going to stop home to say goodbye before he left, he was already at the airport and just wanted to tell her that he loved her…

"Hey, El!" the hostess called. "We're just about ready to leave. You need anything, or should I start locking up?"

"No, no… That's fine. I was just about to leave too," El said in reply and waved half-heartedly as she pocketed her phone and began walking back to her car. Upon getting home she kicked off her shoes and half-heartedly sent a reply to Peter telling him that she loved him and missed him and good luck, she knew that he'd get Caffrey this time. Then made dinner for herself and Satch, and then got in her coziest pajamas and settled down in front of the TV with her favorite movie (_Princess Bride) _and a bowl of buttered popcorn in her lap. She had her laptop set up beside her, waiting for Peter to come on IM down in Florida; he had told her that he'd pop online to say goodnight once he got in his hotel room.

Knowing him, the cheap place he was staying in didn't even have internet.

There was a sudden knock on the door that made her nearly drop her bowl of popcorn. She set it out of Satch's reach and scampered over to the door, wondering if Peter's flight had been cancelled, or maybe he'd been lying to her to hide a birthday surprise—

Instead, she found the all too familiar face of Neal Caffrey staring back at her.

She nearly screamed, but he held up his hands and shushed her urgently. "Don't scream, please, Mrs. Burke!" he whispered. "I'm not here to hurt you. I just wanted to say happy birthday."

El gaped at him.

Then she slammed the door in his face.

"Mrs. Burke, _please! _Listen to me. It's about Peter."

Tentatively, she opened the door half an inch. "Is he okay?" she asked urgently.

"Yes," he said. "May I please come in, though? It's rather cold out here and it'd be easier to explain inside."

She glowered at him and considered how stupid it would be to actually listen to the likes of Neal Caffrey. But then again, he wasn't one for guns…and she didn't have any _really_ expensive pieces of art lying around, so what did she have to worry about? "Fine," she muttered. Neal beamed at her and closed the door behind himself; she crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. "Aren't you supposed to be in Florida?"

His smile faded and he exhaled nervously. "Yeah, about that… My flight got canceled. Peter's still in the air. But I knew that it was your birthday, and I felt guilty for making him miss your birthday. So I though I'd pay you a visit, apologize, and give you this." With a sweeping bow, he removed a thin box from inside his peacoat.

She accepted it hesitantly. "It's not stolen, is it?" she asked. "Or bought with counterfeit money? Or stolen funds?"

Neal had the decency to blush. "I actually used Peter's personal credit card. Think of it as a joint gift."

El knew she shouldn't open it… But what the heck. She didn't have to keep it, but opening it would be okay, right? She set the lid down on the coffee table and pushed the blue and white tissue paper aside. Her favorite colors—how did Neal know? There was a card resting on another layer of tissue, crisp and white with her name written in immaculate, elegant script in the very exact center. The other side held a message, written in the same scrawling calligraphic hand.

"_Peter and I had a chance to get to know each other once when we were handcuffed to a time bomb in a Mafioso's warehouse. He told me how much he loves you—how much he believes that he doesn't deserve you, how much he absolutely adores you. I know that, because of me, because of the past year and six months, two weeks, six days, at times it must seem like that can't be true. But let me tell you, El. He worships the ground you walk on."_

El gave Neal an awed and slightly skeptical look and moved the last layer of tissue paper aside.

There was a single rose lying there, on top of a long velvet jewelry box. She didn't have to look inside to know what was inside; she could already feel her eyes beginning to mist over. When she looked back up at him, Neal had swept off his fedora and was holding it in front of him with both hands as he gave her a hopeful look. His expression was almost excited, at once both worried and eager to please, waiting for her reaction like a schoolboy giving his mother a present. El couldn't help but smile back at him.

"Peter won't be back for at least two days," she said. "You'll do for tonight. You have to leave right after the movie's over, but I'd appreciate the company."

"Princess Bride?" Neal asked, taking a peak at the DVD cover. "A classic. You have _great_ taste, may I say that?"

"Sit down and be quiet," El said as she placed the rose in a vase. "And—"

"Don't worry," said Neal with a slight smile. "I won't tell Peter."


	5. Apple

_**A/N: **__So, I'm very new to the series and you guys have probably seen this already, but… Dude. The idea of Matt Bomer/Neal Caffrey singing with June in Season 2? Ah-may-ZING! Remove the spaces to see what I'm talking about: _http : / www .usanetwork . com/ series/ whitecollar/ video/ fullep/

_The prompt/story tie-in for this chapter is a bit of a stretch. Review if you need a deeper explanation. 'Cause it's deep. In my head, at least.  
_

**

* * *

Apple.**

"And—and—and—tell the cook to keep the milk out of that, will you?"

A young Neal Caffrey (or, as he was known here, _James) _nodded at the strange, jittery bald man and scribbled his request down on the notepad he had in his elegant hand. "Will that be all, Mr. Haversham?"

"Yeah, yeah," Mr. Haversham said, didn't respond to Neal's smile, and buried his face in the desert menu. Neal turned and nearly ran back to the kitchen to tell the order to the cook.

"Got Havah-sh'm?" At Neal's exasperated nod, the cook laughed. Neal ran a hand through his short cropped hair. "We all gotta deal with him sometime, kid," the cook said and went back to his work.

Neal sighed. "Least this is the last one for the day."

"You clockin' out early?" Cook asked, amused. "You gots a gal-friend?"

Neal grinned and shook his head. "Nah, nah. Just some off time, my mom, y'know?"

"Psh, let me _tell _yah 'bout _mah _madre… Woo! What a piece a work!"

As he hurried out of the kitchen with Mr. Haversham's order, Neal wondered how any work got down around Cook. He set down the platter of food and Mr. Haversham's special lactose-free ice cream, and asked, "Would you like anything else, Mr. Haversham?"

"No, no, that's fine." Haversham waved Neal off; the teenager couldn't wait to get out of there, practically ripping off his apron and sprinting to the back door. He nearly forgot to take off his name tag but remembered just in time to avoid having to make a second trip.

"Have a nice day!" he shouted over his shoulder to the cook and grabbed his fedora from the coat rack by the door as he ran outside. He threw his hat on his head and continued sprinting down the street, past the bagel shop where he caught breakfast, past the bookstore he went to in the evening, and down, down into the subway. He hardly paused as he slid his card through the scanner and pushed through the tumbler gate; he only stopped when he reached the most crowded station he could find. There, he skidded to a halt behind a pillar and took a moment to adjust his crisp white shirt, run his hand through his hair, and scrub his face of any smudges he might have picked up along the way.

Clearing his throat once more, he moved out of the shadow of the pillar and selected a spot in full view of the crowd. He put his hat carefully on a clean patch of ground (who was he kidding? This was a New York subway station. It wasn't _clean_) and wetted his lips. He hummed a few notes, and then opened his mouth: "Oh, the shark has pretty teeth, dear! And he shows 'em, pearly white."

Heads began turning as the first few bars of the song sank into the eerie semi-silence of the subway. His voice, sweet and young but snappy was reminiscent of an age long past. Well, the fifties and sixties, so not _too _long gone.

After running through "Mack the Knife" and a couple of other so-called ancient songs, he'd adopted quite the following, and quite the small fortune. He left for about twenty minutes to buy a bottle of water and give his throat a rest, and when he returned the crowd had dissipated. Well, all except for one young woman. She was about his age, which was frightening, and her eyes—God, her eyes, they were so blue they scared him speechless. She had a copy of _Twilight_ under her arm and an origami flower tucked in her ear.

She smiled at him, and his heart threatened to leap out of his chest. "D'you know 'As Time Goes By'?" she asked, and he almost couldn't hear her over the thudding of his heart.

"Yeah," he said quickly, trying to save face as he cleared his throat and took a swig of his water. "Do you?" he asked, and raised an eyebrow.

She smiled at him. "I love the classics."


	6. Fruitloops

_**A/N: **Review responses, because this was a shorter chapter and it's Fourth of July and I feel like it...  
_

_WayLowHalo - :) I PM'd you, but again, yay! You caught it!_

_Wondo - Thanks for clearing up Satchmo. I wasn't sure. I'm glad you're enjoying. The Halloween Ball is going on my idea list for stories._

_CSIGurl-101 - Yepperdoodle. Well...yeah but not completely. It's complicated. And to the "Truth" review, it's on my idea list.  
_

_Kenziealizabeth - Thank you for the reviews, I'm glad you're enjoying the story._

_MrsPineapple - Thank you for your review!_

_I Dream of Fantasies - Thank you for your review.  
_

_

* * *

_**Fruitloops.**

Neal had always had a way with children. He knew exactly what to say, when to say it, and just what tone to use when he did. And no matter how hard he tried, Peter couldn't hold a candle to Neal in that regard; be it a five year old, a ten year old, or even a very much not a "child" ex-conman, Peter simply couldn't handle them well.

Luckily, the aforementioned con was more than happy to step in when Peter bowed awkwardly out.

For example, right now they were standing on the front steps of a nice Manhattan apartment with fourteen year old girl and her eleven year old sister. The eleven year old, Claudie, seemed like she was about to cry, and Peter was at his wit's end—he had to continue his questioning, but at the same time he knew that if that one girl started to cry then he wasn't going to be able to continue said questioning.

Karina turned to her red-faced sibling and hissed, "Claudie, stop crying. Come on." She cast an apologetic glance at Neal and Peter and hugged her little sister.

Neal didn't have to look at Peter to know that the agent wasn't going to help anytime soon. He squatted down in front of the two girls and placed his hat on Claudie's head. The tears stopped immediately as she looked up at him in surprise, and he gave her an easy smile while taking one of her hands.

"Sweetheart, everything's going to be okay. We're going to get your father back, don't you worry. Now…could you tell us one more time what the man with the tattoo said? Just take it easy, every little bit of information you can give us will help us save your dad."

Ten minutes later Peter had the information he needed, the tears had never really come, and the girls were hanging off every single word that escaped Neal's lips. Peter left the three alone as he went through the crime scene one more time and spoke to his team again; when he came back, he found Neal teaching the older one hat tricks while the younger sister made origami cranes beside them.

Neal looked up at his expectant handler and then looked back at the girls.

The older sister clutched Neal's hat almost desperately. "Mr. Caffrey—"

"I told you, Karina, you can call me Neal." His smile was his normal charming smile, but more than that, somehow softer, warmer, more genuine. He put a hand on the little sister's head and looked into Karina's dry eyes. "You can keep the hat."

"Are you cereal?" she asked, almost desperately.

Neal's smile quirked up sideways in a lopsided grin. He stood.

"Yeah. Fruitloops."


	7. Mouse

**Mouse.**

_"Come on, Caffrey! We've been at this cat and mouse thing for two years already! Aren't you getting a bit tired?"_

From where he sat on the roof of his apartment, his laptop positioned on the end of his deck chair and his Bluetooth firmly stuck in his ear, Neal Caffrey felt like he was watching a movie. He had an HD live-streaming feed from the museum in Maine, and the audio was coming in through his right ear as if he were right _there._ It totally beat IMAX. All that he was missing was the over-priced, slimy-buttered popcorn, and a large soda. Maybe some Junior Mints—although those always messed up his teeth…

"No, Agent Burke," Caffrey replied through his earpiece. "Not in the slightest."

_"You having fun?"_

Neal grinned. "Consider the cat, Peter," he drawled. "He nabs his mouse by the tail; there is no hope for the mouse to escape… And yet the cat lets it go, because it's secure in its ability to recapture its prey. The cat catches it again, pulls it back to where the mouse began, and lets it go again. All just fun and games."

"And you're the cat in all this, Neal?"

Neal nearly broke his neck as it snapped up to look up at the doorway where none other than Peter Burke was standing.

"You carrying?" Peter asked.

Neal stood up, his hands on either side of his head, which he shook slowly. "No," he said, taking a few cautious steps backwards as Peter advanced. "I don't like guns, Peter, you know that."

"Just making sure—Hey! Neal! Oh—_ Neal!"_

Peter rushed to the side of the building and found Neal sliding down a drainpipe to a fire escape; before Peter could shout, "Cover the alley! Cover the damn alley!" Caffrey had already jumped down the last rung of the ladder into the front seat of his waiting Mercedes-Benz convertible.

By the time the FBI had started up their cars, Neal was long gone.


	8. Prefigurement

_**A/N:**__ I got this prompt and had the idea, "Wouldn't it suck if Peter had a partner before Neal, and the partner died while getting on a plane, and Peter wished he had stopped the partner, and so he was stopping Neal and OMGeezums, the plane blew up and had Peter not stopped Neal, Neal would'a died too?" So yeah. Not my best one, and sad, but yeah._

_I'm considering a longer pre-series story, but I don't know. Commitment's not my strongpoint story-wise and I don't have any ideas plot-wise. If I did the pre-series thing it'd be a series of interconnected oneshots with lots of jumping around. Blah. Well anyway. Thanks for all the reviews and support._

**

* * *

Prefigurement.**

"Hey!"__There was someone sitting in Peter's chair. Not only were they sitting in his chair, but this person had their shoes up on his desk. And this person's shoes weren't even dress shoes; they were black Converse and they were covered in mud.

"Get out of my seat!"

The young man put his feet down and stood, revealing that he was taller than even Peter. He was definitely an agent, but Peter couldn't imagine this guy out in the field—he had to be a probie.

"For that matter, get out of my office!"

The kid grinned at Peter, his green eyes closing cheekily with the expression. "But boss," he said in a heavy Brooklyn accent, "you told me to meet you here."

The older agent groaned. "Don't tell me you're Ari Cruikshanks."

"I'll tell you that I'm not," Ari said. "It's Cruikshank. Not 'Shanks."

Peter stared at the kid. He just knew that this wasn't going to work out. There was _no way_… Peter turned on his heel and nearly ran out of the office to Hughes. He didn't care that this Ari kid was laughing at him and hadn't followed.

"I don't think this is funny," Peter said upon entry.

Hughes gave him his customary glower. "Neither do I. I was in the middle of my sandwich, Burke. This better be good."

"Where's my partner?" Peter asked. "There's this joker in my office—"

"That joker's your new partner. Deal with it." Hughes pointed at the door. "Now, we've got that jewelry theft that needs taking care of."

"But—"

"_Goodbye, _Burke."

Realizing that he couldn't do anything about his situation, Peter sighed and walked out of Hughes' office. He went back to his own and found Ari leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. "Alright, kid. Jewelry heist on Water Street. Let's give you a test run."

* * *

Two years later and it was time to say goodbye to the partner Peter had grown to not only trust with his life, but love like a son. Ari had said goodbye to everyone in the office and taken a cab to the airport before Peter had even arrived, and though Peter technically had tons of work waiting for him, saying goodbye to his partner took top priority.

"Ari!" Peter shouted as he ran after the disappearing figure on the runway. "Hey, 'Shanks! Wait up!"

Ari turned and waited for Peter to catch up; the green-eyed agent was smiling gently at his out of breath ex-partner. "How come—how come you said goodbye to everyone but me?"

Ari's smile grew. "'Cause I know you were gonna cry, Boss," he said.

Peter gave his trademark bulldog scowl. "I'm not going to cry, 'Shanks! What's the real reason?" Ari bit his lip and ran a hand through his hair. Peter's gaze softened. "You can still say no to this assignment, buddy. Go back to busting criminals, 'stead of pushing papers in D.C.?"

Ari's fingers tightened into his scalp and he looked away. When he looked back, his eyes were shining. "Peter, 'm not gonna be a desk jockey. I'm going out of the country to infiltrate a terrorist cell."

Peter's jaw dropped open and his lips worked helplessly, trying and failing to form the words of a question. Ari waited patiently, though his face was growing increasingly flushed.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Peter finally managed to choke out.

"Because you're the only one who could change my mind." Ari took a deep breath and scrubbed his face, looking for all the world like a lost little kid. "Look, Peter, this is what I need to do. Please don't…"

"I won't," Peter said.

"I know," Ari sighed sheepishly. "Part of me wishes you would."

Peter clapped a hand on Ari's shoulder and looked deep into his partner's, his friend's eyes. "Let me tell you, kid, this is what you should do. You're going to have fun. You're going to do a lot of good. You're the best person for this job—I know you, and I know you'll do awesome."

Ari nodded and wiped his eyes again. "'m gonna miss ya, Pete."

They shook hands. "I'm gonna miss you too, kid."

Ari turned and began walking back to the plane; Peter watched, feeling his chest tighten painfully. Ari stopped in the door of the plane and was turning to wave at Peter when something went wrong. One second he was standing, smiling at Peter, and the next there was red splattered across the white side of the plane and Ari was on the ground. A split second later came the crack.

"NO!"


	9. Violin

**Violin.**

Neal didn't know when everything had gone wrong.

Maybe it was when he trusted Fowler to keep his word. Maybe it was when he met Kate. Maybe it was when he had first forged that small little statuette and sold it, claiming it was the real thing; his first venture into a long life of crime. Maybe it was when he was born.

But whenever it had gone wrong, it had. And here he was standing on the roof in the middle of a Manhattan winter, a singular scene playing over and over behind his eyes and certain bitter memories flitting across the back of his mind. Kate was gone forever. Neal was alone. The smell of fired shots clung to his clothes.

He had stopped shaking a while ago. Now he just stood. Thinking. He'd always been a good thinker. But right now he was having a hard time focusing on thoughts. The sight of blood leaking out of the unconscious bodies…

He'd put the bottle in the center of his table with a bouquet of origami lilies sticking out of its neck. He'd placed his hat beside it, a note hidden beneath. All he had to do was jump, now. Not even that—just step into oblivion.

But something was stopping him.

He knew he was loved. Elizabeth, Peter, he knew that they cared for him. Mozzie cared. June adored him. Hell, even Hughes would curse him with affectionate sorrow if he jumped off the roof. They were stopping him, despite the fact that they were miles away from him.

He looked down at his hands and remembered the sight of blood on his fingers. He remembered why it was there. He remembered why _it had to be there._ Why no matter how absolutely terrible he tried to make himself feel, he still felt grim satisfaction whenever he thought of that deadly bang. Neal clenched his fists and inched closer to the edge.

"NEAL!"

He looked dazedly down at the street to find Peter staring up at him in horror.

"Neal, no! Don't do it!"

Peter disappeared inside and Neal knew he had to decide now. It was now or never.

He sighed. "El's going to kill me anyway," he muttered, and stepped away from the edge. He went to go sit down on the cold concrete, his head in his hands, to wait for Peter. Even though he'd been expecting it, when the door slammed Neal flinched.

"Neal—Neal—!"

"Shhh, Peter," Neal said. "Listen. Can you hear it?"

Peter stilled, as still as he could get while his chest heaved with exertion. "Hear what?"

"It's the smallest violin in the world. And it's playing for me."

* * *

_**A/N:** I've been in a dark mood. :( I've been reading Neal Whumpage fics.  
_


	10. Hero

**Hero.**

It was the outcome of so many scenarios.

Peter had run through millions of them: El taken hostage, Peter stuck in a meeting with his phone turned off, Neal to the rescue; Peter getting shot at and Neal taking the bullet for him; Neal being found by some old associate of his and getting attacked for turning fed. So many different ways of Neal getting a piece of lead lodged in him.

And Hell. It had happened a couple of times—they'd ended up in a hospital and Peter had even gone and gotten Neal a superhero cape. It was a fact, after two years of working with the FBI. Neal was a hero and as such got his ass handed to him more times than Peter cared to think about.

But no one ever thought that the ex-con would be brought down by the run of the mill mugging.

Peter had been waiting for Neal to meet him at June's, but after ten minutes of waiting Peter pulled up his tracker and found that Neal was three blocks away and stationary.

That was when he had phoned for back up and ran out the door. He nearly got lost, and only managed to find the right alley by following the smell of blood. There, tucked behind a dumpster, was Neal. He was half naked, his dress pants were undone, he was covered in bruises and lacerations, and he had a gaping hole in him.

_And he was still breathing._

Peter ripped off his jacket and pressed it against Neal's wound, trying to staunch any further bleeding, and with one hand fumbled for his cell phone.

"Cruz? Cruz, can you hear me?"

"What's wrong, Peter?"

"Call an ambulance. Neal's been shot."

Peter hung up before she said another word, and he looked back at Neal. He had never seen a sadder sight in his life—so much blood, so much bruising… Peter could only imagine what else had happened to Neal. He felt sick; there were very distinct hand prints on Neal's body. Maybe they'd be able to get matches from his attackers... Oh God, when he got _his _hands on the scum that had done this to Neal, he was going to... Neal suddenly stirred, very slightly, and a gasp escaped his lips.

"Neal! Neal!" Peter cried, and Neal hissed through his teeth.

"Too loud, Pete…r."

"Neal, you've been shot. Don't talk too much."

"The girl…she was calling for help…" Neal's head lolled to the side and his eyes fluttered closed again. "She got away…"

"Figures you'd be shot being a damn hero. Look, Neal, how many times do I have to tell you, leave the hero work to me?"

"But the cape," Neal said weakly.

Peter groaned.


	11. Lame

**Lame.**

"Neal Caffrey! Get your sorry ass out of that bed!" I groaned from beneath my luxuriously soft, thick pillow and down comforter as Peter banged on the fine oak door.

"I hear you moaning in there, Neal!"

"How do you know I'm not groaning 'cause of—"

_"Neal."_

"Fine." I slipped out of my warm bed and winced as my feet hit the cold floor. I made sure to make my bed neatly before even turning on the water for my shower.

"Skip the shower, Neal."

I opened my door, knowing I looked like Hell: tousled hair, circles under the eyes, unshaven jaw line, and rumpled sweats and undershirt. I glowered at Peter. "This is what you get for keeping me up to ungodly hours of the morning, for the past six weeks. I am going to take a shower."

Peter held up his hands. "Alright, alright."

I closed the door, locked it, and tried not to chuckle at the slight lip curl I'd gotten out of him. That was the first sign of real annoyance I'd gotten out of him in a long time.

After a nice hot shower and slipping into a very thick black peacoat (soft white scarf, two pairs of socks, gloves, and a hat were donned as well), I felt ready to face the day—and the FBI. I opened the door with a smile this time. Peter checked his watch with a mocking air and said, "Twenty minutes. I was expecting longer."

"I'm going green, saving water," I said snarkily, grinned, and headed downstairs in the hope of grabbing a snack from the kitchen before we left. I was just about to jump down the last two steps when some article of clothing got caught on something else; the next thing I knew my face smacked very hard against the floor and pain was shooting through my body.

Peter was laughing at me.

"Are—are you alright, Neal?" he asked through his chortling.

I was still blinking away the spots in my vision when he reached down and grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and set me on my feet. My leg gave away as soon as I put weight on it and Peter had to help me stand.

"Aw crap," I sighed. "I'm as lame as a nag, Peter."

"You got one thing right," the agent said. "You're pretty lame."


	12. Wax

**Wax.**

"Stone walls do not a prison make," Neal sighs.

"What's that?" Peter asks absently, hardly glancing up from his laptop. They're spread out across Neal's apartment—the ex-con in the kitchen with his head on his crossed arms on the tabletop; Peter sitting on the sofa with his case files, IM'ing El about dinner prospects; and Mozzie playing chess with June out on the roof. Neal's voice was the only thing to break the companionable silence for at least an hour.

"It's a poem," Neal says delicately, "by Richard Lovelace. 'Stone walls do not a prison make, / Nor iron bars a cage; / Minds innocent and quiet take / That for a hermitage; / If I have freedom in my love, / And in my soul am free, / Angels alone that soar above / Enjoy such liberty.'"

"So why now?" Peter asks, knowing that Neal understands his full question.

Neal shrugs slowly. "I don't know."

"Just waxing poetic?"

The ex-con laughs. "You haven't heard anything yet. Let's see…" Neal rises with a flourish of his hand and clears his throat. Peter's eyes light up with amusement at the younger man's pretentious lift of the nose and knows this is going to be good.

"When," Neal begins, "in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, / I all alone beweep my outcast state / And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries / And look upon myself and curse my fate, / Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, / Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd, / Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, / With what I most enjoy contented least; / Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, / Haply I think on thee, and then my state, / Like to the lark at break of day arising / From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; / For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings / That then I scorn to change my state with kings."

Peter applauds as Neal gives a mocking bow, but he doesn't notice the catch in Neal's smile, doesn't hear the slight falter in Neal's voice as he says, "Thank you, thank you!" And when Neal sits down again and shuffles with some papers, Peter turns away, thinking all is still well.

Peter doesn't realize that Neal isn't waxing poetic, but nostalgic for a person and times long past.

* * *

_**A/N:** I'm not happy with these last few. Meh. But the next one is one I'm looking forward to: "Youth" is going to be a Byron x June shot. :D :D_

_If I'd known I'd get so many reviews for a White Collar fic, I'd have done one LONG ago. Thank you guys SO much for your feedback!_


	13. Youth

_**A/N:**__ Sorry about the short hiatus. We've got a road trip coming up next week (huge thing) and other stuff has been going on that's more important than fanfiction. I had a little bit of a lack of inspiration with this, too, and it was hard to get this oneshot out. It's not up to par, IMO, but I think you'll enjoy it... Maybe._

_:) Season 2 is going to be great! I can't wait for more. I also got hooked on Covert Affairs. Blind guys and the CIA. What's not to love?  
_

* * *

June shivered, despite being swathed in a thick fur-lined jacket. She had been out at a holiday charity event that evening, which had ended early due to a sudden falling of snow. The children there had been released to enjoy the winter wonderland, but since June had another event the next morning and it was getting quite late, and since it had only been a few streets away from her house, she had insisted on walking home.

It was quite cold outside, a week from Christmas, but she didn't mind. The city seemed eerily quiet, the people peering out in awe from the windows seemed child-like, and in the evening it seemed as though she were walking back from a ball with Byron.

He had always loved taking her on walks through the snow, even taking her up north for weeks on end just to go skating with her one on one, instead of getting lost on Rockefeller…

She stooped down in front of her doorstep and packed some of the pristine white stuff into a ball. A glorious smile spread across her face at a memory involving stuffing one such snowball in his hat and tricking him into putting it on. A soft laugh escaped her lips.

Her breath, frosting bright against the darkness of the night, brought back memories of when she'd first met the man who'd become her husband. It had been Christmas Eve and she was walking home alone, having been dropped off by a friend on the corner at the opposite end of the street. The snow was falling thickly, and it was very, very cold. Back then, she hadn't had the thickest furs and she was shivering before she'd gotten two doors down.

And then a man had stepped out of a car and saw her. He wasn't beautiful at all, but ruggedly handsome; he'd obviously had a broken nose sometime in the past, and he had the easygoing half-grin that one has when you've been around the block and lived to tell the tale. He had very light, mocha skin, and a thick swatch of dark, side swept hair was revealed to her as he doffed his fedora. "Ma'am," he said in a thick Brooklyn accent.

She was quiet, struck dumb by his fancy clothes and politeness. He flashed her a charming smile and taken a step toward her when his foot slipped on a patch of ice.

He'd fallen flat on his back at her feet, and she'd burst out laughing. She simply couldn't help it as his hat landed on his chest and snow began to ruin his suit. The look on his face was more bewildered than surprised, and then the snow began to creep down the back of his shirt and he jumped up, yelping. It only made her laugh harder.

If you asked her, that's the moment she fell in love.

They'd spent the rest of their early years together, growing from youngsters flirting chastely and leaving gifts for each other to young adults, madly in love. When he'd gone to prison she'd stood by him, visited him, loved him still—despite her mother telling her that she was wasting her youth, and her father telling her that Byron was a no good scumbag who didn't deserve the attention she lavished on him. But she had been young then, and she had thrown responsibility and good sense to the wind for her beloved. It had been hard, yes. But oh dear, dear… It had been worth it.

A smile adorned her face as she climbed the steps to her house, and she turned to watch a pair of small children walking along through the snow. She eyed the snowball melting in her hand, and then tossed it at them. It hit the little boy square in the back, and he spun around to face his sister, grabbing a handful of snow and dumping it on her head. Their peals of laughter made June laugh as well. It made her sad that she didn't have the energy to join them, but she egged them on wholeheartedly under her breath.

Finally though, the cold got to her and she had to step inside. She was getting older, she readily admitted that as she leaned closer to the heater and rubbed her stiff fingers together over it.

But Neal, watching from the top of the stairs, swore that June was getting younger every day.


	14. Dude

**Dude.**

"What's up with you?"

Neal looked up from his pillow in surprise to find the blurry form of Peter Burke in his doorway. Neal narrowed his eyes. "I'b sick. Whad duz id look like?"

The fuzzy Peter seemed surprised, but Neal had covered his face with his sheets and curled up in the warm darkness. He was just falling asleep again when Peter's voice broke the peaceful silence. He was talking to Elizabeth on his cell, but Neal couldn't make out what was being said. He merely gave a pointed groan and prayed that Peter would shut up and leave him alone.

No such luck.

"Hey, Neal, El's coming over with some soup and meds. Just hang in there, okay?"

Neal gripped the blankets tightly and tried to imagine it was Peter's neck. "Doh!" Neal whined. "Weave me abone!"

"Not going to happen, kiddo," was Peter's cheerful reply. "Just gotta cowboy up—"

Neal threw back his blankets and sat up, glaring at the all too healthy FBI agent. "Dude," he said as best he could. "Leave. Me. Alone!"

For a moment his sinuses were miraculously clear; then they were spilled all across his face, much to his embarrassment. Peter sighed, handed Neal a box of tissues, and shook his head again, still grinning as Neal trumpeted into a handful of Kleenex.

Sometimes Neal's youth astounded Peter. At times like this, though Neal was in a foul mood and obviously a very under the weather thirty something year old, the ex-con was as childlike as ever. Possibly more so.

Peter chuckled. Who, aside from teenage girls from California, said "dude" anymore?

Apparently California girls and Neal Caffrey.


	15. Quiet

Back from the trip! Didn't get to watch any episodes when I was on the trip due to sucky broadband clamps at the KOA's. But I got all caught up on White Collar and Covert Affairs today, so all's good. How're you guys?

**

* * *

Quiet.**

There hadn't been much quiet in Neal's life since Kate's death. People whispered at work, people wouldn't stop talking to him, asking how he was holding up. Peter's voice was louder than ever, and he had this feeling that the FBI agent was worrying about him loudly with El. At June's, even in the dead of night when June wasn't home and the house was completely silent, the quiet was broken with his own screams, muffled in the pillows but still loud. And Mozzie, of course, was his talkative self when he came around. Thankfully the older man hadn't gotten drunk in quite some time, meaning it wasn't as bad as it could have been—but even so, if Neal didn't get some peace soon, he was going to break.

It was a Wednesday around lunchtime, and there were no cases demanding attention. As soon as noon came around, the office emptied, leaving Neal alone with Peter and Hughes; Peter was reading the paper with a sandwich next to him, and Hughes never left his office for lunch. Ever.

But Neal hadn't brought a lunch, and while he wasn't hungry in the slightest (which was a lie, according to his rumbling stomach) it wouldn't look strange for him to leave the room.

He walked calmly out the door, up to echoing stairwells to the second to last floor, and stepped into the elevator. No one ever came up there in the first place, and the elevator only went from that floor to the roof, so it wouldn't be called to anywhere. Meaning, he could sink down along the wall, close the door, and enjoy the silence for at least ten minutes.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, trying to get rid of the tension that had been present in his shoulders ever since Kate's death. He'd gone to get a massage, or more accurately had called a masseuse to his apartment since there wasn't a place within his range, but that hadn't helped. He'd tried Icy Hots and even working out, but nothing worked.

The weight that was on his shoulders wasn't physical, no matter how much it felt like it was. He could feel his hands shaking in his lap and he sighed, bringing them up to his face and rubbing his eyes with his trembling fingers…

He hadn't gotten a good night's sleep in what felt like years, and the peaceful silence of the elevator seemed like a blessing to him. He kicked out a leg, crossed his arms, and slumped down in the corner, his eyes closing and his breath whistling between his teeth as he tried to take advantage of the quiet seclusion… But it was so hard to keep the images from flashing behind his eyelids, to keep the moans from escaping his lips—the silence was suddenly suffocating, heavy, pressing against him from all sides.

His eyes snapped open and he slammed the elevator _off_, the door freezing half-shut and the lights fading into pitch blackness. He pulled his knees up to his chin and ground his teeth, wishing he could knock himself out against the wall just to get some dreamless sleep, to run from the nightmares—but he was afraid to do that, too afraid to harm himself…

So Neal sat there in the stifling silence for a long time. It was cold and unfriendly, even in the middle of August, and Neal couldn't help it when the shivers began to wrack his frame.

* * *

Peter walked out of his office and made his way toward Neal's desk. The office was crowded again, a happy buzz of post-lunch conversation filling the space. Peter was going to ask Neal if he wanted to go home early today since there were more than enough bodies and not enough cases to demand Neal's presence but when Peter reached Neal's desk, he found it was empty.

"Hey, Diana?" Peter called as she came in with another agent. "You seen Neal?"

Diana shook her head. "Nope. He in trouble?"

Peter wondered at that, and headed back to his office. After checking Neal's tracker, he found that the ex-con was still in the building. Somewhere. Unfortunately, the tracker didn't tell him what floor or which room Neal was hiding in—just that he was on the east side of the building, and not moving.

Maybe he'd gotten stuck in an elevator or something. But there were at least ten different elevators in the building, and there were only two on that side of the building where Neal's dot was.

…Of course.

Peter shut his laptop and hurried out of his office once again, then took the elevator up to the roof and headed across to the stairwell. He went down one floor and lo and behold, there was an elevator door half-way open just down the hall. The light was off inside, so Peter was sure to be quiet as he approached it, but luckily nothing jumped out at him.

But as he stuck his head inside and tried to see if Neal was there, or if there was a light switch, Peter heard something. He paused in his search and listened; there it was again. It was the sound of soft moans, whimpers—it sounded like a little kid.

Peter finally found the light and it pinged on, and the door slid shut up on him before bouncing back open. Peter nearly tripped over Neal's leg as he tried to get out of the doorway, but Neal didn't wake up. He was too deeply asleep, too absorbed in whatever nightmare it was that was making his brow furrow and pulling those sad sounds from his lips.

Peter wondered how long this had been going on. He had guessed it had been a while, after he remembered how many times Neal had come into the office with circles under his blue eyes and trembling hands—but Peter hadn't thought that it was this bad…

The agent sighed and carefully lowered himself down next to Neal, shaking Neal's shoulder as he went. "Hey, buddy," Peter called. "Time to wake up."

Neal woke immediately, and with a weary sigh. His blue eyes opened to half-mast and the look of quiet desolation in them broke Peter's heart. Before either of them knew what was happening, Peter had put his back to the wall and pressed his shoulder to Neal's. It wasn't as openly affectionate as an arm over the shoulder, but it was a steady, comforting weight, and it was enough for Neal.

"Bet'cha came up here for some quiet, huh?"

Neal nodded slowly, and silence settled on the elevator once again. This time the silence was complete, companionable, and Neal could hardly feel the world's weight what with Peter's arm being there instead. Neal's voice was raspy when he finally spoke, saying,

"Looking more for peace, than quiet."


	16. Stale

I have no idea where I was going with this. Bit distracted by Warehouse 13 and political calls. Eyerolls... People keep talking to me. And it's annoying. It's like, just because I can pause the On Demand, doesn't mean you can just talk over everything I'm watching...

The first version of this had a list of upcoming prompts and ideas at the bottom. Ignore that! It's gone now.

* * *

**Stale.**

It was a cold winter day in Manhattan, threatening snow but not likely to follow through. Neal had woken up late but hadn't wanted to get up, and besides, it was a weekend. Peter would be sleeping in till noon anyway, so it wasn't like he had anywhere to be.

"'Bout time you woke up," Mozzie said as Neal came out of the bedroom, his thick down comforter wrapped around him like a cocoon. "You're like some big overgrown child, Neal. Or maybe just a cat."

Neal smiled, his hair falling into his face to add to his sleepy look. He ignored his friend and instead went to his kitchen, his fuzzy purple—pink—socks slipping and sliding on the polished hardwood floor. "I've got some soup from last night," he said as he went to the refrigerator. "Want any?"

"Ew, leftovers. You know I don't eat anything I didn't see prepared!"

Neal rolled his eyes. "But you show up for dinner late all the time," he pointed out. "You don't see me prepare _that._" Something seemed to occur to him, and he cocked his head to the side, frowning. "Wait…"

Mozzie held up his hands.

"You would too! There's always the chance of an Anakin turning into Vader."

Neal smiled, shook his head, and began to heat up his soup. He set down the bowls on the table and looked around for where he'd put the crackers. "Mozzie, what did you do with my Goldfish?"

Mozzie blinked. "You still like your soup that way?"

Neal made a face and reached went to go search through his cupboards and boxes and even his bathroom. He ran a hand through his hair and blew out his cheeks—and then he snapped his fingers and reached for his phone.

"Peter, I told you not to go through my cupboards when you come over. Leave the cooking to me and all that… Yes, I _know_ I said that, but my house is still my house! …what do you mean it's not my—Peter, what did you do with my crackers?"

Mozzie snickered and brushed some orange crumbs off of his hands. It was funny to see his friend so flustered over a bunch of orange munchies.

"What do you mean… Yeah. Wait… Wait… I think I know who did this."

Mozzie's watery eyes met Neal's narrowed blue ones and swallowed.

"Now Neal, let's not overreact here. I was doing you a favor! They were stale anyway!"


	17. Oof

Don't know where this one came from. Hope you like it.

**

* * *

Oof!**

Neal pressed his head against the long, velvety snout of the black horse that had been given to him. El had already gotten up on her mount, and Neal was waiting for Peter, who had been paying their fare.

After a long, danger intensive case that involved a chase across the country and half of the FBI in Arizona working with them, Hughes had given Peter (and thereby, Neal) a bit of a break. Three days to do whatever they wanted out here; El came out and immediately demanded a trail ride.

And so there they were, their horses saddled up and ready to go, just waiting for Peter.

"Have you ever done this before?" El asked Neal curiously as he patted his horse's neck and rubbed its forehead.

"Yeah," Neal said with a smile. "When I was a kid, Mom would take me every sum…"

His smile grew a bit brittle, but luckily for him his horse chose to knock him over with its heavy head, saving him from explaining. El's brow furrowed, but before she could do anything, Peter came up and clapped his hands together, saying, "Alright! Let's do this!" and spooking his horse.

Neal grinned as Peter struggled to approach his wary horse. "What with you saying 'cowboy up' all the time, you'd think that you'd be a natural at this sort of thing, Peter."

Peter scowled at Neal. "I notice you haven't even gotten on your horse," he pointed out dourly.

Neal raised his eyebrows, wordlessly accepting the challenge, and without even using the fence put his foot in the stirrup, gripped the saddle horn, and swung himself into the saddle gracefully. His horse hardly moved beneath him as he got up, and he kept his back straight once he was seated.

Peter gritted his teeth at Neal and grumbled something inappropriate under his breath. El smiled at him. "Peter, play nice."

The agent put his right foot in the left stirrup, grabbed the saddle horn, and heaved himself about a foot off the ground. He was left hanging there as he tried to figure out what had gone wrong, and the look on his face was so comical El and Neal nearly fell out of their saddles, they were laughing so hard.

And when Peter lost his grip and fell flat on his back in horse crap, even the trail leader was in stitches.


	18. Evil

Not my best ficlet.

I have a theory that Neal was involved in the military or something to give him such a familiarity with guns. I think maybe there was some traumatic event when he was young (a friend shot, one of his parents shot, his goldfish shot), but to get the knowledge he has of guns and how to use them (and take them apart and put them together)... Hmm. Something cool. Maybe even CIA... (Joking. Or am I?)

**

* * *

Evil.**

The body was laid out flat amidst the pile of cardboard boxes, her hands folded across her breast and her eyelids closed. She had no clothes, and the bruises stood out vividly on her pale skin. She had been beaten badly, and there was a hole in her forehead, just like another little girl he had once stumbled across. Neal knew it was wrong to stare, but he couldn't take his eyes off of the girl who had been so brutally murdered. His vision flickered from the wet Manhattan alleyway to the hot, dusty streets of a warzone; the same situation, the same smell of blood and fired shots, the only difference being the surroundings...

He felt sick.

"We've got to stop him," Neal said around the lump in his throat.

"This isn't in our jurisdiction, Neal," Peter said through clenched teeth. "This isn't a white collar criminal."

"You're right," Neal replied with icy vehemence. "That guy is a monster."

"We'll get him, Neal, don't you worry. But we can't do that sitting here… Come on." Peter grabbed Neal's arm and made to drag him away from the crime scene so that he could call Hughes about this new development. He knew there was no way that he'd still have control of the case, but knowing the homicide department, there wasn't a good chance that the case would ever go in the right direction... He sighed and opened his phone, jerking on Neal's arm again. He wasn't prepared for resistance and lost his grip as the conman refused to budge. The agent gave Neal a surprised look. "Something wrong?" he asked.

Neal's lips worked for a moment, but nothing came out. Then he clenched his jaw and shook his head. "Is it wrong to want a murderer put away?" he asked softly. "Is it wrong to want justice for this little girl? Is it wrong to be disgusted at this—this... _This_ is wrong."

Peter's gaze softened, and he put his hand on Neal's shoulder; the younger man sighed and let himself be pulled away to the stairs. No one said anything all the way down to the car, but when they sat down inside it Peter felt the need to talk. "You've seen this before."

"There are a lot of evil people in the world," Neal said softly. "I've seen my share…"

"Is that where you learned to hate guns?"

Neal shrugged, "I hate guns for a lot of reasons."

Peter knew better than to press his friend. He put his keys in the car and they drove off in silence.


	19. Uniform

**Uniform.**

"Isn't this some sort of crime?" Kate asked with some amusement as she brushed some lint off of Neal's shoulder.

"Oh come on," Neal said with a grin, "people do this all the time. Or are you asking if it's illegal to look this good in uniform?"

She gave him a playful smack at the wink he gave her. "Stop it, or we'll never get out of this hotel room in time," she said coyly, and as he bent down for a kiss she slipped out of his arms. She dodged a bear hug, laughing gaily, and reached for a box lying on the mattress. "What did I say?" She hugged the box to her chest like a shield and gave him a wicked smile.

"Aw, Kate…" He peered across the room at her through his luminous blue eyes, turning on the full puppy charm. She covered her face with one hand to avoid his adorable pout, but couldn't hide the blush that was spreading across her cheeks. He managed to slide his arms around her waist and kissed her exposed lips.

"Neal, do you want to see my costume or not?" she laughed as he pulled away.

"Well, yeah-" Kate ducked out of his embrace with a graceful twist, and disappeared into the bathroom. "Why bother with it?" Neal called after her. "It's just going to come off eventually anyway!"

She threw her shoes at him and the evening went from there.


	20. High

**High.**

She descended the stairs with ethereal grace; the light cast a halo across her upswept hair and made her eyes shine in a way that made him think she was an angel. No, he knew she was an angel—this only confirmed it.

Her smile was radiant as she saw the look in his eyes, and she did a small twist to let him see her dress. Gray, almost white, it lung to her every curve and still had the room to ripple slightly as she moved. It looked so soft, almost like some strange liquid… His jaw was slack and his eyes were wide as he struggled to find words.

"So, what do you think?" she asked him after a moment or two of shocked silence.

All he could come up with was a feeble, "Hi."

She always could read his mind, so even though he was blushing now at his schoolboy reaction, Elizabeth's laugh didn't hurt. "I guess that means you like it," she said and pecked him on the cheek. "You ready to go, or do you need a few more moments to recover?"

Peter shook his head and let her take his hand, squeezing her small finger. He was still marveling at how, even after ten years, she still took his breath away.


	21. Never

**A/N: **Sorry guys, I've just started high school. It's been a very long week, been very busy lately… But OMG! The other day's White Collar episode was so heartwarming. Really. The sweetness of PeterXElizabeth, and then Neal/Peter's relationship-the look on Neal's face, his hair tousled, breathless...when he's standing over Peter's gurney thingy...

I'm so glad that White Collar doesn't set its main characters against each other, breaking each other's trusts over and over and over again for seven seasons, until FINALLY they begin to trust one another (only to have it shattered yet again). So many of my favorite shows do that—but thankfully, White Collar is the exception!

(…Matt Bomer looks so hot when he runs up and shoots and shouts at Fowler… Heart!)

I've been uninspired writing wise lately. It's not fun. Today's prompt was hard and doesn't really work. xD

**

* * *

Never.**

"Burke," Hughes growled from his door. "C'mere."

Peter adjusted his tie and practically ran up the stairs to Hughes office. From where Neal was standing, carefully pouring and mixing coffee for his coworkers, he ouldn't turn to see what was going on with the agents. Ever curious, he turned to Diana. "What's up with them?"

She smiled around her coffee mug. "It's field trip day," she said smugly. "Peter, being the star agent, is taking a group of high school kids around the office."

"From the way you're smiling, I'm guessing it isn't the most coveted job," Neal commented, quite amused at the idea of Peter dealing with a bunch of bored high school students. Peter wasn't so good with kids, or people in general, and he certainly wasn't the most interesting person around the office. "Poor kids."

"Poor Peter," Diana said. "And poor you."

Neal blinked, and set down his doctored cup of coffee. "But—I'm not his partner!" he protested weakly.

"Hey, partner!"

Diana raised her eyebrows at Neal, and the ex-con groaned. Then he turned around, handed his coffee to Peter, and put on his usual winning smile. "Hey, Peter," he said warmly. "What's on the agenda for today?"

Peter stepped around Neal and gestured for him to follow. At Neal's desperate plea of, "Save me!" mouthed to Diana, she laughed and tossed him his hat.

"You have _got_ to teach me how to make this stuff," Peter said to Neal as he dragged him into the elevator. "This is great, thanks, Neal!"

"You're welcome," Neal sighed in a pained voice as Peter took another sip of the coffee in question. He either ignored or didn't notice the agonized tone in his friend's voice, or the bright blue puppy dog gaze that was trained on him. Neal was forced to recognize that he was just going to have to cowboy up and deal with it.

Wait, had Neal just used "cowboy up"? In his own head?

God, this was going to be a _long _day.

The elevator came to a halt and the doors opened to reveal the first floor of the FBI building. It was filled with kids and the best agents from each department and unit were trying to split them up into groups. A receptionist jogged up to Peter and Neal, leading a pack of ten ravenous monsters known as teenagers.

"Here you go, Burke. Have them on the roof for lunch, have them down here by five. Caffrey." The receptionist disappeared.

Neal smiled at the very sleepy looking group of kids and received venomous glares from most of them. Peter muttered, "God help us," and then spoke up, welcoming the high schoolers to the FBI, would they just cram themselves into the elevator please?

They shuffled in, dragging their knuckles like stoned gorillas, and there was hardly room for Neal and Peter to follow them inside. Peter struggled to reach the button for their floor, and Neal tried to press himself as far into the corner as he could. The elevator was uncomfortably silent, and the air was getting quite stale—it was with relief that Neal followed the kids out into the office.

He held the door open for the last of the kids, a short girl who looked just as sleepy as the others, but was smiling and seemed at least vaguely human this morning. She continued to smile at him as he followed her inside, and walked beside him as the group drew further away on their tour.

"I feel bad for Agent Burke," she said conversationally, nodding toward where Peter was struggling to keep a cheerful smile on his face.

Neal shrugged. "Eh. At least it wasn't me."

She snorted. "I'm guessing you guys are partners."

For a moment, the two were silent as the conman-turned-consultant considered this. He had protested at being called Peter's partner earlier, but…

He met his friend's gaze across the small sea of teenagers. The agent offered him a good-natured grimace, and Neal shot him an encouraging smile. To think they'd be having this moment, after three years of running and chasing, taunting and teasing, and four years of bitter separation… It seemed impossible.

If you had come to Neal in prison, or even a few months in to his new job, he would have laughed and said, "Me and Peter Burke? Pshh. Never."

But now?

Neal's smile softened. "Yeah, I guess we are."


	22. Xeric

**_A/N: _**This was really, really hard to do. The prompt was a new word to me, and it took me five different tries and five completely different scene ideas to come up with this one. And this one's not even all that good, sorry! I know it's been noted that El looks like she could be Kate's sister. "Someone likes brunettes."

Also; has everyone seen the clip of Matt singing "Love Is a Many Splendored Thing"? I really, really wish he could sing on the show. That'd make my day...

Again, not happy with this one, but oh well.

**

* * *

Xeric.**

Neal stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, moisture rolling down his face from his wet bangs, looking like tears. His blue eyes were pained as he rested his arms on the sink and bowed his head, wiping his cheek on the back of his hand.

It had been three months since Kate's death. Three months since he had broken down on the tarmac in tears. Three months, and he hadn't shed a single tear since. The anniversary of the first time he'd met Kate had come and gone without mark or even acknowledgement; the date of their first kiss, likewise; the day she dumped him in prison, gave him that secret message… Today was the three month anniversary of her death.

He hadn't cried on any of the other occasions, but now, now he should have been in tears. He had every right to be. Yet he couldn't bring himself to even get misty-eyed, and he hated himself for it. His mouth was dry, his eyes were dry, and they had no right to be.

"Dammit!" he hissed, and there was a crash, and then terrible, terrible pain in his hand.

He clutched it to him and groaned. His knuckles were bleeding and there were fragments of glass stuck in his broken skin. The door wasn't thrown open, Peter didn't appear to swear at him and clean him up. Mozzie wasn't there to freak out at the sight of blood… And Kate wasn't there to throw him a gentle, sarcastic comment and clean him up. Tears dripped down his face and he sniffed, resting his forehead against the cracked glass. "Dammit," he whispered to himself, angry that it took this sort of thing to get his eyes wet. The pain in his hand dimmed in comparison to the pain he felt in his heart, and yet only the former could make him cry. Another surge of anger bubbled up in his throat like bile.

He was just about to slam his fist back into the glass when a voice stopped him.

"Neal! What did you do to your hand?"

He looked up and found himself gazing into a familiar pair of blue eyes, a familiar head of dark hair… For a moment, his misty eyes swore that what he was seeing was real—and then a fresh wave of tears welled up in his eyes and his knees gave way, and he buried his face in El's shoulder and sobbed.


End file.
